


Highly Social Distancing

by AnonymousHeavyIndustries



Category: Free!
Genre: Anal, Anal Fingering, Bathroom Sex, Choking, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Glory Hole, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Public Sex, Safer Sex, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:07:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26127730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonymousHeavyIndustries/pseuds/AnonymousHeavyIndustries
Summary: Holiday ruined, half a year of his life down the drain, things refuse to go back to normal, and everybody's got somebody to quarantine with except Natsuya—and Rin.
Relationships: Kirishima Natsuya/Matsuoka Rin
Comments: 18
Kudos: 21





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> T[unes](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k6F77kJFFks).

"My immune system's basically a woodchipper, it'll be fine."

Natsuya doodles jagged points in the condensate coating his Asahi. The beer is old stock, got that metallic tang from sitting on back of a shelf too long, but with Matsuoka on the line, his tastebuds stay idle.

Machineguns chatter in the background, intercut with barely audible action one-liners. "They shouldn't've let you back in the country."

"Japan's got things on lock and stupid Taiwan had me in quarantine forever anyway. So do you wanna?"

"Not if you're gonna be like that."

"Then why'd you call?"

Explosions, stock dying screams, heroic trumpets pause midnote. The quiet goes beyond the line, beyond the now-petrified image on Matsuoka's TV screen. The living noise—arguing kids and doors shut too hard, bedsheets snapping out on the balcony, old timers doing radio exercises, construction vehicles rumbling to their worksites—is gone. It's the same where he sits. He's been camped on the steps with a sixer for half an hour now and nobody's asked him to kindly move his daydrinking self elsewhere. The only voices he's heard in the past week are essentials, obliged to accept his contaminated coins, lame-joke-telling breath, discounted, day-old bento that he mostly buys to hear them say the total. And now Matsuoka.

Matsuoka's silence holds to the thread-edge of comfort, then resolves: "I'm bored."

"Me too." Natsuya looks to the pair of grasshoppers mounted stock-still atop each other under big-headed clumps of blue hydrangea run out their beds and into the stairway. They've been clung together since before he got there. Fucking, he supposes, or maybe dead. Hard to tell. "Let's entertain each other."

He edges a finger towards the grasshoppers and the one on top waggles his antennae furiously, legs sawing out a scolding click, and refuses to budge.

"Yeah, I get that," he tells it, retracting his hand. Matsuoka doesn't mind the lack of explanation.

The fluorescents are hospital white and quiet. The light they cast is even, indifferent, leaving no dark places, no intrigue, nowhere for crawlies to carry out their little sandgrain existences. The punch of bleach in the air hints at another essential, still scrubbing seats too fearsome to entrust one's ass to. They've said it doesn't live long on surfaces, but they've said a lot of things that aren't true anymore. Who knows. Who cares, at this point.

In the second stall, a pair of slick sneakers rock in time to tinny, muted rap. Natsuya pulls himself up on the door, ignoring the griping hinges.

"Nice mask." It's black and bears Samezuka's shark-biting-blade logo in gold.

Matsuoka glances up, unrooting his earbuds. "My kouhai made it."

"The desklady at the hotel gave me mine." Red, patterned with peonies, a bit tight on the ears, but bearable. "Think she felt bad for me."

"Haru's been making a ton if you want extras. He's in this whole big crafting frenzy. Mailed me an entire set of tableware made out of paulownia. It's really nice, but like... why?"

"Cooped up with nothing to do, same as you." Natsuya drops and enters the next stall. "We could've met up at yours, y'know."

"I can't afford to get sick. Have you seen the reports? It ruins your lungs permanently."

"I _know_." Nobody doesn't know. It's all anybody knows now. He locks his teeth, inhales, and kicks back into his usual easy, buoyant tone. "Super Virus! Does everything all the time to everyone. Microwaves your balls, explodes your heart, melts your lungs, files your taxes, cleans your bath... It's solving world hunger as we speak."

"Don't get mad at me for taking precautions." The rustle, then fall of Matsuoka's trackies.

"Whatever."

Natsuya drops his own and peers through the hole in the stall divider. Matsuoka has on pair of depressingly plain grey trunks, daily wear rather than the dicktwistingly nasty stuff he busts out when he calls him over. Not that it isn't sexy, cause it was Matsuoka after all, but still. Not even the small joys have been spared.

"Condom?"

Natsuya flashes it through the hole. "I never fail."

"That's the one that ripped last time."

"Man, gimmie a break. It's my comfort condom. You want me to wrap it in a garden hose?"

"It spreads through cum."

"It spreads through everything! We just got a bad batch that time, that's literally never happened to me before. I threw the whole box out, this is a new one." He shifts his good side into view, pulling angel eyes. "Bought it special, for you."

Rin kicks under the stall. "You don't do shit for me."

"Ow, fuck!" He kicks back, but they're already his favourite bruises. "See if I treat you to dinner again."

"A buy one-get one couple's special you got from playing pachinko and can't redeem unless you bully the manager into acknowledging gays exist isn't a treat."

"You're still hung up on that? Free is free. How you get it doesn't matter."

"Get me a Burberry coat free and I'll try and look the other way."

"I mean... Security's not going to be tight. I probably could. What size you wear?"

"52, Large."

Satisfied by the offer of tribute, Matsuoka turns. The thumbprint of lube marking the seat of his trunks gets lost in the folds as he pushes them down, exposing a stainless-steel pull-ring. The design is practical, but invariably reminds Natsuya of beer. A sixer of Matsuokas looped up under his armpit, cracking open a can of ass while viewing cherry blossoms in the park.

"You got out Big Boy for me? I'm honoured." His fingers skim the sticky crust of sweat and misery coating Matsuoka's ass. When he listens close, he can hear them peel away. Too horny to even scrub off his quarantine grunge, _mm._ The thought of cock-starved Matsuoka squirming on his couch, gaping himself wide open with that brute of a plug, savouring every pothole he thumped over on the way here, is a special kind of hallelujah.

"Haven't used him in a while is all," Matsuoka mutters, chasing his touch. It's cute when he lies like that. "C'mon, this isn't a peepshow. I got shit to do."

Natsuya grips the slick, warm metal and pulls, watching Matsuoka's fuckhole flare an inviting redpink. It sucks against the steel, sputtering out a stream of lube, sending a hot shiver rippling through his prick. He pushes it back in a little, to see if he'll complain. Wouldn't that be a trick, coming this long way and only fucking him with his own plug. No dick for poor Matsuoka... but no ass for him, so.

He pulls again and as Big Boy eases out, Matsuoka's breath goes gaspy, mouthing out a silent _oh, oh, oh_. He wishes he could see it. Matsuoka always makes the best faces. But no, no face to face contact, says the government, not even for fucking. Go use a glory hole, it suggests in the most unreal press release he's ever seen. At first he thinks it's fine when Matsuoka says that's what he wants. Glory holes are cool when you want uncomplicated fun while travelling, but for your kinda-steady-fuckbuddy-slash-friend-you-haven't-seen-in-yonks, turns out it actually kinda sucks.

Big Boy is heavy enough that Matsuoka always warns him not to drop it, cause it'll fuck up his floor, and leaves a beautiful, fat-cocked hole in its wake. It's hard to distinguish between the mask and compound layers of the most powerful cleaning chemicals the government can dispatch, but an earthy stink emanates from the plug, salt and metal and bitterness.

"Hey, hey, look," he says, and when Matsuoka does, he tugs down his own mask, jams Big Boy into his mouth, and drags it out with a spine-clenching _pop._ The blade in the Samezuka shark's mouth twists into a cringe as Matsuoka looks to the exit, then lets it go and gets back in position. Loves his dick too much to not put up with his bullshit—no better crown to remind him he's king.

Grinning, Natsuya kisses Matsuoka's cheek, then pulls his mask back up and traces along the reddened rim of the dripping, fucked-open anus. Looks like he's had a train run on him already. He guesses that would make him the caboose, and it's stupid but it makes him laugh and Matsuoka kicks him and butts up against the wall more insistently.

"Alright, alright, I know," Natsuya says, rolling the condom on. "Gotta feed the beast."

Matsuoka growls. Natsuya steadies his cock in place and from below the stretch of flesh between asshole and sack, Matsuoka's fingers pop up and prod blindly for his head, trying to get it in quicker. Natsuya catches them and squeezes, then pushes them back to the other side. Another growl. Natsuya about swoons. This greediness is exquisite, unparalleled. If not for distancing guidelines, Matsuoka would've clubbed him over the head, ridden him on the spot, then kept him locked up as his quarantine sex doll, which hey, still sounds great. The day Matsuoka gets a boyfriend, he'll put an altar up, pray in memory.

He sinks in nice and slow. A low groan echoes across the tiles and after a moment, Natsuya realizes it's his own. His head drops back as he puffs out a long stagnant breath. "Fuck, babe."

"Yeah?" The smirk is clear in his voice.

"Yeah."

Matsuoka gives a sweet little tug on his cock— _Welcome back, jackass_ —and that, more than anything else, makes wistful heat knife into his throat. He thumps his collarbone, grumphing and harrumphing like he's got phlegm that needs clearing, and slides the rest of the way in.

What sucks most about glory holes is being unable to get that good feeling of an ass smacking up against you, but for a newbie, Matsuoka sure knew how to make it work. Right when Natsuya comes up on the end of a backstroke, there he is, squeezing on his head so good it sends him into another plane of existence. The divider creaks between them, underscored by the soft, fleshy slap of Matsuoka beating his unwashed cock, and the occasional _yeah, yeah, fuck yeah_ traded back and forth. Neither cares about getting caught, there's nobody to catch them.

Natsuya halts and flexes his cock, relishing the resistance. He aches to grab Matsuoka's razor-trim waist, yank him back and fuck him butt to gut, but all he's got is wall. How mad would Matsuoka be if he crawled to his side and did that? Pretty, he's guessing, and not the kind he could fuck away easy. Still, he wants to be hands all over him, watching his face contort and cock swing, tugging that hair he somehow manages to keep unfried.

Matsuoka pounds the divider. "You gone and died back there?"

Natsuya flexes again. "All you."

He oughta work for it once in a while.

Matsuoka's grimy ass starts to move, sticking and unsticking to the wall, working the tip to start, then diving deeper, hunting out every scrap of cock Natsuya can cram through, forgetting finesse, not caring if it hurts, or feels good, just wanting to feel something after so much nothing, wanting to scream and thrash and breathe fresh air, and the stall jumps and shrieks on its rivets and he gets that too.

"That's right." Natsuya presses his palm to the quaking wall and grinds his hips closer, feeding him a little more. "You missed this good cock. Missed it so much you risked a plague to crawl over here and get it. Thirsty much?"

Matsuoka laughs. "You're the desperate one. I just wanted to jack off and there you are, drooling and tripping over yourself trying to get a piece. Felt sorry for you."

He pulls off the wall. The spanked-pinkness of his cheeks fades as he spreads them, letting his hole wink and suck at empty air.

"Think I'm gonna do that. Go back to my original plan."

Matsuoka drops onto the toilet and leans back, slopping on another glob of lube. Not that he needs it. The stuff he buys is a miracle of Japanese engineering, made from angel tears and the shed skin of virgins, flavourless, scentless, hypoallergenic, smooth as a distant whisper, and stays slick until the heat death of the universe. It also looks exactly like cum. He digs a couple fingers into his sloppy ass, hand still working his cock. Natsuya gets three seconds of voyeur's delight before Matsuoka blocks the hole with his foot.

"You're a dick."

Matsuoka moans.

Natsuya hops up and leers over the divider, dick dragging on him like a ball and chain. "I'm not playing with you."

Another self-inflicted bukakke, dousing his cock and balls and crack. It's pouring off him now, dripping into the toilet. Lube bursts around his squelching fingers, spattering his already filthy skin. His hips pump into each thrust, and he stares up at Natsuya, ears Valentine-red, mask gusting out under the force of his grunts, and the shark chews its sword, waiting, knowing that soon it'll snap.

Natsuya drops to his knees, slams his palms against the grotesquely smooth tiles, and throws his head down with a violence that makes his brain swim. "I most humbly request that you bestow me the privilege of fucking the everliving shit out of you, for I am a desperate, thirsty bitch and I need you like the day needs the sun!"

Matsuoka rams up against the wall, ass pert, ready. "Permission granted."

Natsuya scrambles to his feet and gets right back in his guts. Breath mushes up inside his mask, fogs against his cheeks. His hands twist futilely against the wall, hungry to grab Matsuoka, hold him close, hold him so it hurts, so their skeletons fuse together and they melt into a pile of sentient fuck, just keep fucking him til everything's normal again and crawling up his throat, those words he dreads, out of his mouth before he can stop it: "Please, babe, please, please, please—"

He hates it, but when he's with Matsuoka, he can't help himself.

"Yeah— _hah!_ —yeah, do it," Matsuoka pants, and his voice is weird, like he's getting choked, and it screws his nuts up in the best way, "Fuckin cum in— _ahh hah—_ cum in me."

"Fuck, please—!"

Natsuya shoots, jamming his cock in one last time, greasy forehead smearing against the wall as everything dissipated in a load beefed up from being alone so long that jacking off wasn't even fun anymore. With each spurt, tired peace ebbs into his bones. He wishes he could cum forever. Cum and lay in a bed with Matsuoka with no masks, no restrictions, mouth-kissing the way Matsuoka never let him cause that was 'boyfriend privilege' or whatever.

Matsuoka strokes a few more times, milking Natsuya's softening cock, stiffens, then goes limp with the same gasp he does coming up for air at the end of a race. He coughs a couple times, spits into the toilet, and starts bunching up toilet paper. He's got what sounds like a good wad in his hand when the rattle of the dispenser stops and he says, "...Dude, I hit the wall."

Matsuoka steps aside and sure enough, splattering the field of clinical blue, a blastmark of jizz oozes towards the floor.

They break down. Water fills Natsuya's eyes so quick that it's good as crying.

This close, removed from the overly sanitized confines of the toilets, he can smell Matsuoka. It's a pastiche of oily, old-sweat, sour, rainy season damp. His tracksuit is as wrinkled as the backside of an elephant, a Sin as far as Matsuoka is concerned. Only the jacket is cleanish, zipped to the neck to hold back the stink roiling beneath, and from it radiates a painful cologne miasma. He knows the scent, has smelled it the way it's supposed to be, back when they first hooked up and he'd had too many stouts to not tell Matsuoka how fucking good he smelled, to not put his face into his neck and make something happen. _Fragrance should be discovered, not announced,_ Matsuoka had said, but he's fair screaming now: _Back off._

He wants to give him a bath. Wants to be as thorough with his body as Matsuoka is being with his hands. Washing not only the palms and backs, but the middles, the webbing, each individual digit, under the nails. Impressive, considering the soap dispenser only yielded a wet fart.

"Is the grocery store up the street any good?" Matsuoka asks, moving up to his wrists.

"It's a grocery store, they're all the same."

"I just wanna know if they sell the big bags of rice. I'm not trying to leave my place any more than I have to."

"Except for dick."

"I'm consolidating errands."

"I'm an errand now, huh."

Matsuoka flicks the excess water off with a crooked grin. "I get it done, check it off my list."

"Man, if Sousuke could hear you... And yeah, they got the big bags. Y'know, I could carry one or two of them for you. Have you hunkered down til the next Olympics."

The water chokes to nothing. Matsuoka jabs the hand dryer awake with his elbow. "You're not coming over."

"If I had it, I would know by now."

"Not if you got it on the trip back."

"There was only ten people on the entire plane, and that's including the staff. Besides, capsule hotels are a pain in the neck. Your bed's better."

His logic fails to move. "Go stay with your brother if it's that big of a problem. Or whatshisface. One of your other buttbuddies."

"Hiyori's staying over at Ikuya's place so there's no room, Nao's super busy, and my 'buttbuddies' all got shacked up while I was in Taiwan. Last year they were saying relationships are for chumps, then here comes the plague and everybody's found Mr Right." Natsuya leans on the mirror. "You're all I've got."

But said like a joke. Like it doesn't matter.

"No."

Which means staying stuck in his personal coffin. "You suck."

Matsuoka turns with a lazy, dismissive wave and heads for the door.

"Hey," Natsuya calls, "when this is over, I'll give you a big ol kiss with extra spit. In the meantime..."

He blows a kiss. Matsuoka swats it out the air and stomps it, smearing its guts across the floor. "Later."

"Seeya."

He waits until Matsuoka is out of sight, too far gone to change his his mind, then grabs his phone and scrolls to his chat history from last night—Hiyori, 9:45PM.

_how's he doing?_

_**The nurse called and said they had to put him back on ventilator** _

_**His blood oxygen levels were too low** _

_**They said they want to try taking him off again in a day or two** _

_**If that doesn't work they were talking about doing a tracheostomy** _

_**I talked to your parents about it already, you don't have to call them** _

_ok_

_when can we see him?_

_**Don't know, but they'll definitely let you in sooner since you're his brother** _

_**I'm still testing negative btw** _

_well that's good_

_you get the stuff?_

_**Yeah he's going to love it** _

_**We'll have him home in no time** _

_yeah definitely :)_

_keep me posted_

"Fuck."

There's a part of him that says he ought to get absolutely shit-your-pants plastered, terrorize some essentials so the police will pick him up for a day or two, then pack a bag and bike to Hokkaido and slam himself into a frozen mountainside a couple hundred times, but it's too quiet to pay any heed. The phone hangs in his hand, asking now what. He got his piece of ass, his one good thing for the day—for the week, probably—now what? Keep his chin up for the folks, stop by Ikuya's flat and hang another bag of pistachio-flavoured-everything on his doorknob? Stop being a coward and look up whatever the hell a tracheostomy was?

The buzz fades. Nausea sinks in. Time for another bento. Could hit up that store Matsuoka was going to. Wouldn't be creepy, clingy, whatever you wanted to call it. He has reason to be there. Could joke about it, say, _long time no see!_ Could talk him into getting takeout, or at least a bento, and they could daydrink on the steps and watch grasshoppers fuck. Sneak himself some hard stuff, blackout in his lap. Matsuoka toted his carcass to his hotel every single night in Australia, gave him lifts when he missed the last train and couldn't talk straight enough to call a cab, picked him out of a residential garbage pile after getting butt-dialled at 2AM and carried him home like a bride; he would do it again.

Sickness rises in his throat. It's too dirty. He can't. He can't.

Natsuya pockets the phone and trudges out, tucking the top edge of his mask beneath his nose so he can smell something other than his own stinking breath. The air is thick, wet, and new, and soon as he thinks they're due for more rain, a droplet drills into his scalp. More follow and he stands there, staring at grass grown lush and dark in the absence of human feet. Where do bugs go when it rains? Do they have somewhere they can hole up until it passes or do they just deal with it, hoping they make it out the other side?

He's jerked backwards, into the shadow of an umbrella. He glances to the hand gripping his arm, then at Matsuoka. "You're not distancing properly."

"What hotel are you staying at?"

"Giving me a ride?"

"Getting your stuff. Come on, I don't want to be standing out here until tomorrow."

There's no point asking why. Matsuoka is almost as impulsive as he is. "I don't remember the name, but I can give you directions."

Scrounging for his keys, Matsuoka angles the umbrella to give him better coverage. "Fine. Groceries first. I'm in the lot over there."

Despite the downpour, the smothering, damp blanket of summer pulls tighter.

A steady, inquisitive rain taps overhead. Two ten-kilo bags of rice nap in the backseat and in the rear footwell, tins and glass clatter against each other with each turn. The stereo rolls whisper quiet through a hard rock playlist they've both forgotten is on. Matsuoka's car doesn't have trash piled in the backseat or an all-permeating, unidentifiable smell, but it's lived in. Dust films over the dashboard and there's papers and an owner's manual and tools in the glovebox, which Matsuoka calls him nosy for looking in but doesn't stop him. He doesn't stop the hand tracing the grey stripes up his thigh either.

They hit red in a vacant intersection. Matsuoka cranes his head from one side to the other, hunting out an oncoming truck, a crotch rocket, some kid on a bike. Nothing.

"Timed lights are such garbage. There's nobody here."

"Run it."

He doesn't. His hand lowers from the wheel, pausing to wipe away the sweat, and rests atop Natsuya's. The rain heavies to a hiss.

"I got you a souvenir."

"Cool."

They wait on a red glowing empty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Natsuya is the one who named Big Boy and the rest of Rin's toys. Rin has given up arguing against it.
> 
> Return of the Present Tense, alongside an unexpected return to glory holes, courtesy of government sex recommendations. Almost nothing I read is written in present, but lines kept coming out in it, so I figured I might as well give it a go.
> 
> Criticism is not only welcome, but encouraged, and helps me create better content in the future. Thanks for reading.  
> 25 September 2020  
> \- 匿名重工業


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Nah yeah, that's good, I'm ready to move on," he lied, opening a new document.
> 
> If you prefer it as a one-off, you can leave it as that. 
> 
> Obligatory [tunes](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rJhhTg1C4Kg).

To his surprise, they haven't run out of condoms yet. They haven't fucked on every flat surface in Matsuoka's flat in a dionysian frenzy or gotten bored enough with regular fucking to start getting into the weird shit. He had a dream the first night he was there, one that Matsuoka begged him to choke him and he did, choked him til scalding tears rolled out his eyes and burned through his knuckles, til he was gasping blue, til he was dead, and he didn't tell anyone, just kept palling around with the corpse like nothing had happened. Feeding him dinner, arguing about who was going to win the next Central League. He was all for the Giants, Matsuoka was into the Tigers. He likes lost causes.

 _My dad went to the 85 Championship game_ , Matsuoka told him once, and it was the only thing he'd ever said about him. _He said it was incredible._ They have a tape of the game still at his house, somewhere. They don't even have a VCR anymore, but they still have the tape.

(He hasn't told Matsuoka about the dream. Seems like bad luck.)

To his surprise, they haven't fucked much at all and he's strangely okay with it. It's like they're back to Australia, after they've worked through a near decade's worth of Matsuoka's sexual frustrations and Natsuya makes himself a regular guest at his flat, when they walk around in their underwear because it's hot and they've got nobody to impress. It's that casual, noninvasive shade of domestic that works—coffee and meat pies and screaming at footy even though they only half-know the rules, rather than the incense-laden deep dives the astrology gays in Cali always tried roping him into.

 _What colour is your heart right now?_ _What lies are you telling yourself?_

Matsuoka doesn't care if his heart is red, blue, or sunshine yellow, only that he keeps it to himself. He appreciates that. Guys who tried making something out of nothing were the worst. Shoving their their busted, broken-up feelings on you like it's your fault and you have to fix it. Not Matsuoka. He's his own handyman. Anything wrong in him is fixed before the lights so much as flicker. He's had practice, that much Natsuya can tell, and it pisses him off sometimes, how mature Matsuoka is for a guy his age. How serious. But he doesn't need fixing, won't ever ask to borrow a hammer, and Natsuya, who goes around half the time with the drawers of his self skewed and hanging open, coils and cogs spilling forever over his scrambling arms, trying to stuff it back in even though it won't fit, is relieved.

But he's getting sidetracked.

Not fucking much isn't saying they haven't fucked, because they have. He rammed Matsuoka against the wall not long after he unpacked his junk. They killed a floor lamp and he fucked up and forgot the condom and taught Matsuoka the pleasure of being creampied. He's not sure which Matsuoka was more pissed about, but he paid for a new lamp and they'd been breathing in each other's faces too much for it to matter. They jerked each other off when Matsuoka finally did end up taking a bath, even though they agree handjobs are kinda lame since it's not that different from doing it yourself. Sometimes when they're watching movies, they find themselves playing with each other's cocks, little squeezes and lazy strokes or just holding them, not expecting it to turn into anything. It usually doesn't.

It's not the crazy sex dungeon scenario Natsuya thought he'd end up in, but it's not bad either.

He's chilling in the him-shaped groove Matsuoka's couch is starting to take on when he asks, "Which one of your swim boyfriends are you talking to?"

Matsuoka stays fixed on his screen. "Have you ever made dumplings before? We can make a bunch and put the extras in the freezer and reheat them whenever we want. Haru says it's easy."

"Is he your type? Or are you more into guys like Sousuke?"

That gets a look. "Don't be weird about my friends."

"You have a lot of hot friends."

"And?"

"I was your hot friend once too."

"You're lukewarm at best and statistically speaking, for all four of us to be gay would be—"

"It could happen!"

"Yeah, sure, it's chemicals in the water, turning the swimmers gay."

"It could happen! For me, if it's between those two—"

"I don't want to know. I don't ask if everyone you know is gay. Is whatshisface? Is your brother?"

"Nao has an internet girlfriend in Hong Kong and Ikuya's just emo. One time I found this erotic poem about mermaids in his homework folder and I ran around the house reading it and he got so mad he cried. Though maybe he could go either way. If he did, would you—"

"God, no. He looks too much like Haru, it's weird."

"So you're saying you wouldn't smash Haruka."

"I'm saying don't ask me if I want to fuck my friends! Do you wanna make dumplings or not?"

"Yeah, that's fine." Natsuya waits until he's not looking anymore. "I'd go for Haruka. I like when guys are a little shorter than me. That way I can put my arm around them and they look all cute."

"Shut up."

Natsuya's phone buzzes. He reads it twice and grabs his jacket. "I have to go run an errand. Do we need anything while I'm gone?"

"Three packs of dumpling wrappers, shaoxing wine, garlic chives. Errand for what?"

"Okay. I don't know how long it'll be. Probably a couple hours."

"But for what? Do you want a ride?"

"I'll be fine."

Before he ducks out, he swings round to where Matsuoka sits and kisses his hair like they've got something special, like Matsuoka will believe him when he says, "It's important, I promise."

Getting where he is now requires extensive spraying, scrubbing, disposable protective equipment which has become a worldwide luxury, and the careful guidance of a nurse with an airport's worth of baggage dragging at her eyes. She tells him he can have fifteen minutes, but can't go in. She, like the doctors Hiyori has been running relay for, says he's been doing very well, fantastic, he's been a fighter the whole way through, and without thinking about it, he agrees. It's _his_ brother they're talking about. He can't be anything else.

Though, looking at the panorama of machines he's plugged into, he doesn't know what they're seeing. Ever since they got him off the ventilator, they have a nurse come by a few times an hour to ensure he's not quietly asphyxiating in his nest of wires. They promise that they're exact with the timing, but the ward is full of sighing machines, gasping patients that need tending. There's other people in other wards who won't put off their emergencies so the staff can be certain this kid hasn't forgotten how to breathe.

The nurse says he wakes up sometimes, offers to wake him now, but he declines. Fifteen minutes, she reminds him, and moves on to complete her rotation.

He stands in the doorway like he's walked in on his dad working, waiting to be acknowledged so he can ask a stupid question. He hasn't let himself look yet, has managed to keep his focus on the machinery as nurses trudge from room to room charting. He counts the pattern in the floor tile. White, interspersed with skips of seafoam green. A window looking out on an orderly courtyard. Chunky digital numbers and jigs and jags in blue and green that must be right, elsewise the nurses would be swarming.

He looks.

The pillow is nice and soft, he likes that at least.

"Hey, Sleeping Beauty," he croaks, and tightness hiccups up his chest. Half a word forms in his mouth, goes to dust. He turns around and sleepwalks towards the exit. The nurses are yelling at him, he can't be out there, he'll make people sick, there's protocol. He can't hear anything. He walks. Maybe someone grabs him. He can't tell.

Matsuoka is eating kimchi over the sink and he's never seen anything more beautiful. The door was unlocked for him, waiting, and that was beautiful too. He drops the groceries and leans into Matsuoka, inhaling shampoo and pickled cabbage and wet stainless steel.

"The hero returns, the grocery store has been conquered."

He expects a jab, but Matsuoka simply says, "Welcome home."

He's heard it an infinity times from his mom, a few from the lays that wanted most to hook him into boyfriend status, but coming out of Matsuoka's mouth, it's different. From him, it's a warm cage to curl up in.

"Got you something."

The bouquet glows with yellows and oranges and wine reds and had ended up in his hands without his noticing until the cashier told him how nice it was people were still doing this. He couldn't bail after that. By the time he hit the next block, a bottle of Sangiovese materialized in his bag, then a sports zine, then he was flying down the street, spurred by a queasy inner lightness. He went down a row of gacha machines, shoving in whatever coins he could find, dumping capsules into his bag without checking to see what they were. He didn't know what to do about the flowers.

Then it blinked into his head—Matsuoka.

He would see Matsuoka, who never asked anything more complicated than if he had a condom, and give him flowers.

It's agony, how perfect an idea it is.

"Nice, right? It'll cheer things up around here."

Matsuoka eyes the bouquet, then him. "Oh. Thanks?"

Natsuya aches to tear his ribs apart, gut himself with the floaters, let everything splatter on the ugly, open floor. He laughs. "What, nothing short of a hundred roses is good enough for His Majesty? Maybe I'll swing you one next time I'm out. Thorns on, just like you."

"It's not that, it's... I'm not really into flowers."

"Aw, c'mon, don't try and play tough now."

"I mean, I like watching the cherry blossoms, but doesn't everyone?" Matsuoka shrugs. "It's always been one of those things I never got. It's not like a live plant, you can't do anything with them. They sit there, shrivel up, and then you throw them away. It's depressing."

"Well, when you put it that way." Natsuya flings the bouquet aside.

"You already paid for them, we might as well keep them."

They aren't too badly hurt, only a few bruised petals, a broken sunflower whose head lolls on its fractured stem, then drops off. It was one of the littler ones, it wouldn't have lasted long anyway. Matsuoka doesn't have a vase, so they prop them up in a shaker cup with some water and the pack of nutrients that came with to make them die less fast.

"Dad used to bring flowers home after he went out on long trips. Flowers for Mom and ice cream for us." Matsuoka dollops filling into the next dumpling. "Who's even selling them right now?"

"Supermarket."

"Huh. I guess somebody wants them."

"Guess so."

Matsuoka glances at the decapitated sunflower stem, jutting from the bottle like it's still worth something. He picks it out, trashes it, and returns to folding. His folds are tight, precise. He has an instructional video from a professional chef going on his phone in case he needs it. Natsuya reaches for another wrapper, half-tears it. The dumplings on his side of the table look like a bunch of pulverized thumbs. He can't do any better.

There's no booze now, hasn't been for a while. They didn't have much to start with. Matsuoka doesn't like having it in the house, so he only got a couple sixers, which is nothing. He thought about sneaking a handle in since Matsuoka let the wine slide, but the guy is letting him live here rent-free indefinitely, and as a guest he has some standards. His phone has been dead for eons, shoved in the back of the Matsuoka's nightstand under the guise of a digital diet. Too much bad news in the world these days, why invite it in any more than they have to?

The fan whirs steadily on, licking at their soles. The neighbour's cat begs for breakfast as if on the verge of starvation, same as it does every morning. Natsuya is first up for once, though it's more like he never went down to begin with. He's shut-eyed, listening, reading the rise and the fall of the mattress. It's a game he's made for himself, greeting Matsuoka. If he gets up last, he loses. He's lost a lot. He wakes swathed in a vast, empty sea of sheets, where the hollow beside him is cold and almost gone. His ears strain for the sounds that will make things okay, sizzling pans, clanking dishes, the throaty rumble of the electric kettle, and only when they're confirmed will he relax. Then he gets up and pesters Matsuoka until he's got himself in a headlock and they're stuck drinking overbrewed coffee and eating fried eggs with hockey-puck yolks and he tells Matsuoka it's delicious anyway.

A titanic shift. He cracks a lid. "Hey."

"Hey." Matsuoka yawns, excavates his eyes out from under the sleep dust.

"What're we doing today?"

It's the question that keeps getting harder to answer. Without swimming, they don't have much of anything. Matsuoka skateboards, but that's out. The government says that jogging is fine, then suddenly everybody's a jogger and jogging's not so fine anymore. Gardening is supposed to be the current hotness, and Matsuoka is kinda in on that but Natsuya hasn't joined him. He tried being a plant dad before, a single father to twin cactuses given to him by the guy who introduced him to poppers. _It's easy_ , the guy said, _idiotproof._ And he's not an idiot, so he figures, sure, it'll be cake. One he loved too much and it drowned, the other he didn't love enough and it withered to a brown, stinking husk. He sent a lot of angry texts about it to the guy, then Nao. Nobody was surprised but him.

"Let's hit the beach," he says, suddenly remembering he's in a conversation. "Nobody will be there."

Matsuoka rolls over and scratches his chest. "Nah. Everybody's doing their best to get this over with, I'm not gonna be that guy."

"Don't you ever wanna cut loose?"

"Depends on what you mean."

He doesn't know what he meant, had figured that Matsuoka would do his mind magic and figure out what his subconscious was trying to say. Like how he could tell when he was just saying, "Oh god, I'm gonna puke" for the fiftieth time because it made him feel better versus when his breakfast was about to bumrush the sheets. Like how he figured out which coffee mug he likes best, the touristy one from Sydney with the big handle he can get a real grip on, without having ever been told.

They didn't talk about him much, but Sousuke called Matsuoka a big picture guy, running headlong into a sunset of his own imagining, only wrenching his neck elsewhere when forced and Natsuya figured he must be right, until he was living with him. Maybe in normal circumstances he's going fast, breaking hearts, rules, and other social conventions, but in these diminished times, forced to reckon with the mundane tragedies of a scratched BluRay disc or a recipe that asks for slightly more than they have, his gaze has grown small and precise. Shiitake stopped appearing in the mixed rice. Anytime they have coffee, the Sydney mug is there. The bathroom fan that squeaked like a strangled mouse was disassembled and cleaned after a single offhand mention. ("Never ran better," Matsuoka said, hands poised on his hips in fatherly satisfaction, then went on a tinkering spree that only ended when they ran out of screws needing tightening and lightbulbs needing changing.)

Natsuya only gets the broad strokes. Glimmers in the mountain of personality. He doesn't know what people want and nobody ever wants to tell him.

"I miss swimming," Matsuoka says, but it sounds closer to, _I miss being alive_.

"When this is over, we'll go swimming in Rome." He piles onto Matsuoka, mussing his hair, singing, " _O, mio cuoricino caro, mi piace è bello, bello..._ "

Matsuoka tells him he's full of shit. Natsuya hears himself promising, really, he's serious, he knows a guy that can get tickets cheap, they'll go see the Colosseum and more churches than either of them can stomach and eat spaghetti and pizza and watch buses catch on fire. They go up faster than you think.

He's been thinking about cumming inside Matsuoka lately. When he's eating dinner. When he brushes his teeth. When Matsuoka is sprawled out "draw me like one of your French girls"-style in gym shorts. He thinks about the bead of white trailing down Matsuoka's thigh, the shock on his face after he realized the lampslaughter was the least of his concerns. Despite his open-bed policy and a swath of terminally horny pig sluts, Natsuya has managed to avoid rawdogging anyone up to this point. He's had condoms tear before, but they were always there. He's never been skin-to-skin, full exposure with anyone else. It's like telling a secret.

He thinks they should try it, on purpose this time. Matsuoka thinks he should go straight to hell.

"You're always begging for it, so why not?"

"That's," Matsuoka chokes, "It's cause it feels good to say!"

"Even though it's not true?"

"It'd be true if it was with my boyfriend!" Matsuoka says, startling himself. He buries his face in his hands to recoup. "It does turn me on. Thinking about him cumming in me, me cumming in him. The level of trust you have with someone, y'know?"

"Like with kissing."

"Yeah. It's not something I can do with just anyone. Honestly, the idea of letting random guys cum in me is scary."

He wonders how Matsuoka reconciles this romantic junk with the fact they're here now because he busted out the backless, mesh-pouch briefs, hopped on his lap, and spit out an entire novella of the things he wanted done to him.

"I bet you're into handholding, perv."

"Maybe I am."

Natsuya jams his fingers between Matsuoka's and swings their arms up. "Urrrryaaaaaa! Got your hand virginity!"

He topples Matsuoka onto the bed, pinning his hands over his head.

"I've held hands before."

"Doesn't count if you were a kid. Everybody held hands as kids." Natsuya wiggles his fingers. "How about we do it like this?"

"Nah."

"Saving it for Mr Boyfriend? There's not going to be anything left for him if you never look. Try interacting with the scene more." The guy doesn't even windowshop on dating apps.

"Now's not the right time."

"The right time won't come unless you make it. You'll spend your whole life waiting."

"I know—"

" _But_. Yeah, that doesn't cut it. If you don't find a guy to meet with by the time this is over, I'm making you take me on a date and you're paying for everything."

"So we'll do the exact same thing we do anytime we go out."

"Except you have you to treat me nice for once. Imagine trying to get past a first date doing half the shit to him you do to me."

"Clowns get treated like clowns. My boyfriend is my king and I'm his."

"Fucking _gross_. Gay. Sap."

"Yeah," Matsuoka says, and it's so genuine that Natsuya feels like he's knocking over a puppy learning to walk.

"Man... If some guy messes with you, tell me, alright? He breaks your heart, I'll break his knees."

"I can bust knees on my own."

"It'll be a team exercise, one for each of us."

"Yeah, okay." Matsuoka spreads his legs, hands idling at the gap in his briefs, circling the warm pinkish pucker. "I got something else needs busting first."

"I still can't cum in you?"

Matsuoka laughs.

"Damn. Thought I'd try."

Matsuoka taps him with his heel. "Good try."

The phone goes off in the middle of a threesome. In the time it takes Natsuya to lift his head, Matsuoka has read, responded, and put it away.

"Kisumi says that Hiyori is trying to get in touch with you," Matsuoka inches forward. "Charger's on the nightstand if you need it."

Natsuya studies the newfound gulf between them, lingering on the deep, naked swoosh of his racerback. "How'd he know I was here?"

"Who, Kisumi? He doesn't. He knows we hang out sometimes, so he figured I had your number."

Right. He forgets they don't know about Matsuoka. Most don't know about him either. There's no reason for anyone to assume he's not playing hide-and-go-seek in random hotels. "Did he say what Hiyori wants?"

"Nah. Probably just checking in." He looks like he has more he wants to say, but lets it go.

Piss-yellow onomatopoeias continue flashing across the screen, as if sex sounds really need translating. Natsuya claps Matsuoka's arm, rubs it for good luck. "Don't hold up for me."

It's not until he's plugging in that he notices he left the door unlocked, but if he gets up to fix it, he knows he'll go straight back to spooning Matsuoka.

It takes a while to load, it's been asleep so long, but eventually the home screen blinks into existence. The notification bubble is abominably huge. There's missed everythings. Stuff from the hospital. Hiyori. Nao. His parents. There's nowhere to start.

He yanks his bracelet, watching his wrist strain against the leather. He thinks he got it in France or Italy. Maybe Brazil. California? Keeping anything straight these days is hard.

The message counter ticks up.

He decides to make the bed. The phone glows from the nightstand as he strips nude the mattress, replacing the sweaty sheets with crisp black ones that carry the smell of faded detergent, fluffs the pillows, replaces the cases. He organizes Matsuoka's shirts by colour and sorts the dirty laundry. Thinks about dinner. Stretches. The phone still glows. He picks it up. The number stays the same.

He doesn't want to touch anything. The instant he opens a conversation everyone's eyes will be on him. As long as he doesn't interact, he's a ghost.

Their movie, some arty Italian schlock about a lesbian vampire cult, drops to silence. Paused to listen in on him. Hate curls in his stomach. Can't even get one second alone in this place, don't know why he thought this was a good idea when everybody's always so fuckin nosy—there's screaming, a musical sting. Oh. Not paused. Just a lull.

He straightens up, tosses the phone back into the drawer, and sits in the bathroom for a few minutes, then grabs a glass of water and seats himself on the other side of the living room, next to their new yuzu tree. He drinks, though he's not thirsty. It's disgustingly cold. Nude women fill the screen, writhing across dingy sheets, losing themselves in each other's bodies. He drinks again. Wants to puke.

"Miss anything?"

"They killed the guy. I can rewind if you want."

"Nah, it's fine."

Matsuoka keeps sideeyeing him. He awaits the question.

"How are you friends with a guy like that?"

There it is. He doesn't blame him, considering what he's heard about the dustup over Haruka. "We're not friends, really."

He has officially, without a doubt, run out of things to do. (Aside from go insane, which he's saving as a last resort.) Matsuoka is still occupying himself somehow, though the uptick in mood he had when Natsuya arrived has settled to a steady water-tread. He hasn't caught him crying in the bathroom or anything, but there's only so much yoga and a freeweight set can do for a guy as active as him. There's been talk in the local government about a partial reopening of the city, but it's stalled. Sports agencies shuffle around dates on their timeline, throwing out maybes, pushbacks, cancellations. Events they had busted their humps qualifying for, marked in fervent red on Rin's calendar, expire and fall into the dusty flanks of the year. There is a consensus, more hesitant each time it's repeated—next year, everything will be normal.

For now, there's gay romances.

"Did it update?"

"Yeah."

"Any progress?"

"He's working up to it." Matsuoka has taken up reading, alternating between nonfiction about exotic locales and a romantic porno hosted on a muscle fetish forum. Apparently they haven't kissed yet, but there's been plenty of pining and jacking off and paragraphs upon paragraphs of muscles described in excruciatingly minute detail. "Goro took Hiroki to his gym, where all the hardcore lifters go, and they're working on his deadlift, and then they're going to get lunch. Dunno if it's gonna get to the lunch date this time or not."

"A man can hope." Natsuya stretches out, plunking his feet into Matsuoka's lap.

Matsuoka immediately evicts them. "Fuck outta here with those goblin feet. You want something to do, go clip your nails."

"I'm no good at it. Always cut em too short and it hurts. You do it."

He expects Matsuoka to remind him he's a grown man, he ought to be able to take care of himself, but he instead lays aside his tablet, vanishes, and returns with a pair of clippers. He drags Natsuya's overgrown feet onto a hand towel and hands him the tablet. "Read from the highlighted bit."

Natsuya makes it two sentences before he has to ask, "What's so good about romance anyway?"

Matsuoka is already done with the right foot and started on the left. "There has to be a happy ending. Even if there's complications, you know everything will be alright in the end."

"What about all the ones where somebody dies?"

"Those are different." _Clik, clik, clik._ "I used to like those more when I was younger. Nowadays, I don't mind if it's a het story, but I don't want that in the gay stuff I read anymore. I just..." The clipper pauses. "I want things to work out."

They don't sound any different to him. Tragedy is tragedy. "Do my ears next."

Matsuoka lines up his pinky toe. "I'm not your wife."

"You could be."

 _Clik._ The nail ricochets off, gets lost in the floor. "I'd rather marry a trash can. Least that takes garbage out of my life instead of dragging it in."

"What garbage am I bringing in?"

"You." Matsuoka refolds the clippers and lobs them into Natsuya's chest.

Natsuya flexes his feet, pinches Matsuoka's forearm between his toes. "You're lucky you're cute."

The compliment rolls off him unacknowledged as the toenails are set aside and the tablet comes back up. Natsuya leans into Matsuoka, skimming over a description of one of Goro's gymmates, a shaved-head bull with iron-cable veins and a Christmas tree back, then lays his head in his lap. He watches Matsuoka's tanktop swell against his smooth, steady breath. There's something else he should be doing now, skills he could be refining, own clay he could be sculpting into a better, more complete form. Instead, he picks at the hem of Matsuoka's tanktop, trying to see if he can pull it apart with his stubby, bitten nails. Matsuoka holds his fingers, quieting them, and his feet knead the couch in retort. He can't help it. His body's always doing things without his permission.

Here's how it goes.

He's got a secret, invisible twin that hijacks his brain whenever it wants. Nobody ever believes it, but it's true. That guy is the one who didn't finish that homework or pay that bill or send that photoset when he said he would. That guy is the one who leaves him stranded in the armpit of South America with no money, not remembering why he went there. That guy is the one who peels him away from everything he loves, screaming: NEXT NEXT NEXT NEW _NEW_ _ **NEW!!**_ That guy is the one who climbs onto the roof, hand in hand with Ikuya, and jumps.

He's always fighting his twin and nobody believes it.

_Why do you...?_

_Why can't you just...?_

They always ask that, crying usually, why does he have to ruin everything? Why does he have to pretend he didn't do it on purpose? Everything is for a reason and if he says otherwise, he's a liar. It's hard to argue against. He wants there to be a reason. He wants for someone to be able to point at his problem and tell him the solution and make his life right, but they always point at different things and the solutions never work.

 _Ow!_ Natsuya squirms at the sting of pain in his arm. Matsuoka smooths over the pinchmark, then scrolls to the next paragraph. It's nice when he does that, gives him a pinch or a whack or a task that makes him feel useful and good. Can't be mutilatingly introspective when you're ordered to check if either of you are in violation of competition swimsuit regulations. Natsuya noses under his tanktop, feeling out the warm, vulnerable stomach beneath. It demands a raspberry. He obliges, launching into a world-class rendition of the first _Dragonball_ theme.

Matsuoka grabs him by the shoulders and shakes him til his eyeballs rattle. "Look! Look! Attention!"

Natsuya yanks himself up on Matsuoka's neck. "Attention!"

Matsuoka sighs and lets him hang there, trying to read over his shoulder before giving up and holding him. Natsuya hums into his naked collarbone, rocking in delight. Now and then he pauses and waits for Matsuoka to fill in the rest of the line and each mumbled note blasts him into the stratosphere. He tucks himself closer and Matsuoka squeezes him into stillness, then eases up so he can resume his puppyish rocking and wriggling. This is why Matsuoka is the best. Nobody else understands how to hug properly. They always do it too long and never hard enough, so he's trapped in an limp, fishy embrace, smelling their odours, cheap perfumes and clothing dye and lunch, crawling under the plasticky scratchiness of a jersey or musty itchiness of a wool sweater or damp clamminess of chlorine-soaked skin. Lifetimes pass during normal people hugs. Fast and hard, that's how it should be.

(Sometimes Matsuoka goes slow, but always hard enough that he doesn't mind.)

Maybe there's more guys out there who know how to hug, but his other pieces are cowards, refusing to indulge him in these cravings on the grounds of it going against the natural order. It's lame.

When Natsuya has had his fill, he returns to the lap pillow. "Read me your filth."

"They're not gonna fuck in this update and I'm almost done anyway."

"Then read something else."

"There's this other one by the same guy about a scientist who makes a magic serum that turns anyone that drinks it into a super ripped four-armed giant. Don't know if it's any good."

"That's crazy, do it."

Goro and Hiroki don't get to the lunch date this time, but who cares when Dr Kaburagi's experiment goes wonderfully wrong and now he has to figure out how to hide his glorious new form from his hunky childhood friend? As Matsuoka rolls through descriptions of watermelon-sized biceps and dicks that would qualify as deadly weapons, pretending it's not turning him on, his hand drifts over Natsuya, stroking his cheek, toying with his hair. He hasn't noticed that Natsuya can totally see up his nose. It's as uncute of an angle as you can get, too much chin, weird-looking eyes, ears sticking out, Adam's apple bobbing under his skin like a giant, tapdancing beetle—but he would gladly trade a thousand beachside sunsets, a million mountaintop views, to lay here and stare up Matsuoka's nose.

He wants to peel him like an orange, smoosh his head straight into his guts, bury his arms up to his collarbones and drag the rest of him inside, then seal everything up behind him so you would never know he was there. It's the one other thing he hasn't done yet.

"Hey babe, look at this cloud, it looks _just_ like a spider, like _exactly_ like a spider."

"Hey babe? I need a player two."

"Hey babe, are you done with the pullup bar?"

"Hey babe, there's some Jesus weirdos outside, what do you want me to do with em?"

"Hey babe? Drive safe. I'll leave the door unlocked for you."

This ravenous, undefined need won't quit him. He can't put his finger on it, can't put it into words. His restlessness has always been hard to articulate. He can't get people to understand that it hurts, more than getting punched in the face, more than breaking his leg jumping off the roof, even more than getting sack-whacked. When he was a kid, he'd cry over it, until he got to kindergarten and developed enough self-awareness to realize crying was deeply uncool and set a bad example, and as a firstborn son and older brother, he knew that he should aspire to be good in spite of himself.

He knows it has to do with Matsuoka, but can't get any further than that. It's not something he can ask him, because it's probably stupid and right now he can't bear Matsuoka thinking he's actually stupid instead of play, pretend stupid. He needs Matsuoka to think he's cool, or at least likeable.

He needs to impress him.

It should be sudden, he figures, dramatic. Heroic. But there's nothing dramatic about scrubbing the bathroom to keep mould from settling in, no heroism in hanging up the laundry. The flowers have retired to the trash, he can't sew cool masks or carve cool bowls, and his attempt to make a fancy dinner ended with Matsuoka scraping garlic briquets and burnt oil out of his frying pan and him banished from the kitchen for the foreseeable future. Each night he drops into bed beside Matsuoka, exactly as close as he had been the night before.

Sense demands he give up. He doesn't have any, so naturally, as they're cleaning up after dinner, he blurts out, "You wanna top next time or are you too much of a bottom bitch?"

Which has the immediate impact of him getting slammed against the fridge and Matsuoka leaning deliciously close and whispering, "We'll see how much of a bitch I am."

And here they were. Him buck naked on the bed, Matsuoka standing over him, cock in hand.

"How do you want it?" Matsuoka asks. He's not hard yet.

"It's been a while, so from the front would be good."

"...I was thinking from the back."

Damn. Natsuya hooks his legs up behind his head and spreads himself wide. "How about this?"

"Let's keep it simple."

"Fiiiine..." Natsuya unpretzels.

Matsuoka tries resuscitating his prick a while longer, then gives him a fleeting, guilty glance. "Sorry."

"I was nervous the first time too. You go in fired up, then you realize what's happening and go, 'Oh god, what am I doing?'" He waits for teasing, affirmation, gets only a hesitant nod. "C'mere."

Matsuoka approaches and stands there as if he's about to be punished, steadfastly staring at the wall, the sheets, anything but him. It's a Matsuoka he barely remembers. One that scares him. The first time they'd got together, the situation had run out from under their feet. There was no place for rules or uncertainty, only honest, alcohol-induced fumbling on the floor. This was more like the second, sober time. It wasn't a matter of Matsuoka not knowing what he wanted, but of not knowing if it was okay to ask for it, if he could permit himself the experience. _I kinda thought I'd be doing this with someone else._ He doesn't know how Matsuoka was able to rationalize it then, aside as fodder for experimentation with the mythical Future Boyfriend—it was only one first, after all, there were plenty more to go—but this is the only one left.

His tongue traces mazes through the firm, segmented curves of Matsuoka's abs, looping back, dead-ending. The downy line of red running through the middle thickens the lower he crawls, snarling into a warm, wild thicket with that good, soap-nothing smell that sticks to his mouth. Natsuya crushes his nose into the hair, kissing the root of his cock. Still nothing.

( _It's kinda lame,_ Matsuoka confesses, sinking into his bath, _but shaving hypes me up. Makes me feel like I'm ready to hit the water full force._ To which Natsuya says, _If it makes you feel good, then do it._ Matsuoka says, _It wouldn't._ )

He wishes the guy thought a little less, drank a little more. Then he wouldn't have these problems.

"You know what you need?"

"To get over myself?"

"Better than that. Hold on." Natsuya unearths a combination butt plug/cock ring from their toybox and kneels before him. "Will you make me the happiest man on—"

"No." Then, "We don't have a regular ring?"

"I lost it. Besides, we haven't used this one yet."

Contrary to the ease with which Matsuoka eats up toys any other day, getting the plug in takes a healthy dose of lube and patience. The ring goes on smooth. He's still not up. Natsuya swallows him whole, digging his fingers into the gnarled mess at the base of Matsuoka's spine. The muscles are clenched like a greedy man's fist and Matsuoka grips his shoulder, breath knifing in each time Natsuya pries a few more fibres loose. It hurts, and hurts, and then it's good. Cock swells into his mouth, warm and delicious. Natsuya slurps up to the tip, testing its hardness. They can work with this.

He presses a finger to the plug and laughs as Matsuoka jerks. "Such a bottom."

His head bounces off the mattress before he realizes what's happened. Matsuoka stands over him, hardon curving out like a weapon, twitching. Before he can say anything, Matsuoka grabs him by the ankle and yanks him over onto his stomach.

"Mr Big and Bad thinks he's gonna make me cry, huh." Natsuya grins.

"Yeah," Matsuoka crawls atop him. "I am."

They play struggle, Matsuoka crushing him against the mattress with the full wiry force of his weight, Natsuya heaving up from below, refusing to submit. They both spot an opening—Matsuoka snags it and locks him in a full nelson. His cock stabs at Natsuya's thighs a few times, then slides smooth into his crack, where it pulses warmly against his hole. They hold there, savouring it.

"You can do it raw, if you want," Natsuya says. "Doesn't have to mean anything."

Matsuoka pauses, then shoves him into position—head down, ass up—and grabs a condom. He cracks open the lube and drizzles it onto Natsuya's already prepped hole, because he is, among everything else, considerate. Matsuoka dips his thumb in, feeling the disgusting aliveness of him, yielding, sucking. It's different, seeing it up close and personal. Even the highest definition cameras have a hard time capturing that particular glisten, the fleshy radiance. He adds the other thumb, opens up the pink bud and studies it, tongue probing the inner corners of his mouth. It's utterly adorable. Natsuya clenches on him, giggling like an idiot at the shock that flashes across his face before it's steeled again, scholarly, and his thumbs gape him wider. Matsuoka reaches a silent conclusion and spits straight into his asshole.

"What's that for?"

"All the dumb shit you do to me," Matsuoka says and spits again.

"But you love my dumb shit."

No comment. Matsuoka steadies his cock at the hole, focus absolute, and sinks in.

Natsuya squirms, mashing his face into the mattress to escape the raw heat cleaving him open. "Ahh, hah, geez."

"Crying already?"

Natsuya puffs his hair out of his eyes. "I'm only getting started."

But he's fucked. He always is. Sensations blur and mash together, the tongue on his spine, the teeth in his shoulder, the ache in his face and neck and everything, muscles scrunching into numbness, toe bones spiralling in on themselves and snapping off. His lungs swell huge, breaking through his ribs, into his head, crowding out his brain. Everything in him stretches screaming to its limits—but it's okay. _I'm okay._

"Hey. What's wrong?"

"Nothing," is his automatic response. Nothing is or has ever been wrong with him.

"Doesn't look like nothing to me." Matsuoka slides out of Captain mode, asking, "Is it okay? I'm not hurting you? Does it... not feel good?"

And now he's the asshole, ruining things again. He sniffs up the juices that he didn't realize were streaming from his nose, harrumphs a few times.

"It's really not a big deal or anything. It's just I kinda... don't like... positions where you get deepdicked. I mean, doing it topping, awesome! Doing it bottoming freaks me out." Matsuoka has taken him to the balls god knows how many times with zero complaint and he can't even handle a brief jaunt on the other side. "Basically, I'm a total baby."

"Oh. Sorry."

Matsuoka pulls out and thinks hard for a moment. He drops onto the bed and drags Natsuya atop him, grunting at the startled dig of an elbow into his gut. They wriggle, trying to align themselves socket-to-plug, Matsuoka's hardon a deep, frustrated red between their legs. When they settle, Natsuya can feel Matsuoka's collarbones digging into his shoulderblades, his breath in his hair. Keep it easy, he says, and busts out this porno shit. He can't help but laugh.

He holds Matsuoka's cockhead steady and Matsuoka shoves it home. _There_ it is. This he can handle.

"Is this better?"

"Yeah, but I gotta ask: am I that ugly?" He angles himself sideways, grinning straight in Matsuoka's face.

"Yeah, so shut up and let me fuck your ugly ass already."

Natsuya jams his heels into the mattress and defiantly fucks against him. Sweet revelation rips through him, informing his littlest fibres, reminding the useless, dopamine-addled blob rattling around his skull—the bottom can be good. He gapes at Matsuoka, whose patient annoyed observation has morphed to amusement, and, lacking words, grins stupidly and smacks his arm. Giddy with rediscovery, he pistons back and forth, back and forth, thighs groaning and burning under the sudden onslaught. He wants everything of this, wants to gorge himself on the newness, cram it all down until he's sick or dead of it.

"Jesus, fuck, chill!" Matsuoka seizes his thighs and pins them against his chest, robbing him of his power.

"I _need_ it," Natsuya whines and writhes, trying to get a leg out, get some leverage. His dick slobbers across his stomach, hungry for stimulation.

"What you need," Matsuoka says, crushing him closer, "is to calm down."

It's an alien closeness, being scrunched up like this, feeling that cock pulsating furiously inside him, ready to dump a load of cum. It feels like Matsuoka is trying to smash him up into a ball and stuff him inside him. And he doesn't know why, but he really wants that. So he tries to stay calm and be good for him. Matsuoka releases his legs to pick up where he left off, revelling in his own brand of new at his own languid pace, uttering soft, obscene moans.

Natsuya tries to be good. He really does. But every bit of him is electric and he's used to putting in the work, he can't just lie here and take it. Desperate to stay as good as he can, he fucks his fist, legs jerking out between Matsuoka's, trying to not push back against him too much, but it's not enough output, everything keeps bubbling up in him and explodes out of his mouth and it's only there, in incoherent screaming, in his stupid, inevitable, _"Please, please, please"_ -ing that he feels almost calm.

Matsuoka slaps a hand over his mouth, hooking his cock into him nice as you please, and croons, "Such a bottom."

There, something he can focus on. He clings to the sound of Matsuoka's voice, the warmth of his breath against his neck, and rides.

"You like that? You wanna be my bottom from now on?" A grin teases into his tone. " We can do that."

"Nnnnnnuh!" Natsuya groans against his hand. "Mnennimeofffuh!"

"Nobody said anything about one time offers." Matsuoka lets out a cute laugh, and presses his mouth to Natsuya's ear, "Your ass is mine now."

"Nnnuh!" Natsuya protests, but Matsuoka is too far gone, helpless to the demands of his cock, to care anymore, and after a few more pumps, Natsuya is too.

Natsuya's head lolls to the side and for a moment, they're panting into each other's faces, so intensely Seen that neither of them can stand it. Matsuoka wrenches him back by the throat, so he can't see anything but the matte white ceiling. Natsuya gets it. He would've done the same. The heel of the hand sits like a rock in his windpipe. His babbling goes wispy. The ceiling creeps closer. Through sheer animal instinct, he mindlessly beats his cock, ratcheting his tension ever higher. Matsuoka digs him out all frantic, as if he's caught a fleck of gold glinting through everything dirty and worthless in him, if only he can get it free.

Natsuya can see Matsuoka's face perfectly in his mind, the wild, feverish red, his composure obliterated beyond repair, giving him everything the way he gave everything everything, because for some reason, he thinks he's worth it. The ceiling hazes. His head is set to blow.

Matsuoka hisses, "Gonna—"

The claw tightens and Natsuya's legs go numb as his cock spews into the uncaring air. With a savage, almighty groan, Matsuoka digs into him one last time, straining his cock as far as it could go, as if conveying something unspeakably vital and precious, and then his breath shudders out, his hand eases up, and whatever he was trying to say is lost in the rubber between them.

Gasping, shivering, Natsuya keeps cumming, spunk burbling over his cockhead, slithering down his shaft to spackle his pubes. He squeezes on Matsuoka's cock as if milking hard enough will undress it, free the wasted cum that is rightfully his. His throat pulses under Matsuoka's hand a few breaths longer before it's gone and Matsuoka is disentangling himself to handle the business of clean up.

Spit gutters in Natsuya's chest as he crawls off. He coughs, gurgles. His throat is raw, bruised and hot, like he's swallowed a coal. Matsuoka stares at him with unbearable concern. He tries to say something smart, lighten the mood, and chokes on it.

"Uh." Matsuoka freezes, trying to process his next move.

"A, a-ha-ha-ah-a!" Natsuya sob-laughs, hacking spit onto the sheets, forces his trembling mouth into a grin. "S'—gggk!—s'fine!"

Matsuoka springs across the room, thunders out of sight. The sink hisses abruptly, drawers bang open and shut. Natsuya massages his throat. The back of mouth has a prickly cotton feel to it. Can't tell if it's bruised or not. Jumping out the window sounds like a good idea. Back to the capsule hotel—no, not that one, Matsuoka will follow him—he'll get some cardboard and chill with the hobos in the park, but Matsuoka is already back, assaulting him with care, shoving water into his hands, mushing tissues against his face in bunches of twos and threes, staring at him until he manages to get a couple drops down. Natsuya shunts the disgusting cherry-menthol into the corner of his cheek and notices the loaded condom slogging around on Matsuoka's softening cock, holding on but for the grace of God. It hurts, but he laughs.

"Hilarious," Matsuoka mutters as he lobs the condom into the trash, but it's undermined with a relieved chuckle.

"Bet I look extra ugly now, huh?" Sounds it too, like he's been gargling rocks since the day he was born.

"Big time ugly." Matsuoka studies his throat closer. There has to be bruises. "Sorry."

Natsuya flings himself back flat, dragging Matsuoka with him. "Kiss it better and I'll forgive you."

Matsuoka pecks his throat.

"Again."

"Don't press your luck."

"Pressing my luck's all I ever do." Natsuya juts up his chin, thumping the dent between his collarbones. "Kiss it."

He does. "Next time, we'll figure out something that works better."

"One time offer," Natsuya reminds him and Matsuoka makes that sad, yet understanding face that's his personal kryptonite. It would kinda suck if his only experience topping involved almost killing a guy... "Fine, we'll do it for your birthday—but that's it!"

He gets another kiss, free of charge.

They doze a while.

When Natsuya fades in, he finds his mouth has beaten him back. "I wanna eat an elephant ear. Chili cheese curly fries. Frozen lemonade. Go on the Tilt-A-Whirl and throw it up."

"You ever think about letting your thoughts keep you company on the inside?" Matsuoka is half-dressed, flicking through a flashcard app with complicated English words harvested from his reading. _Intemperate_. _Alexithymic_. He matches them to definitions faster than Natsuya can read them.

"No, they're scary." Natsuya whumps his hand against the mangled old sliver of stuffing Matsuoka calls his pillow. "You ever think about getting a new one?"

"It's the only one I can sleep with."

"You know it's ninety percent bugs and slobber by now. If this is still going by Christmas, I'll get you one."

"Right after the coat. And the jeans. And that deck we saw in Shibuya."

"How do you even remember—look, you're getting a pillow and you're going to like it." He jabs a finger into Matsuoka's sternum. "You don't even wear the shirt I got you, punk."

"The one you bought for another guy and only gave me because you forgot it at my flat?"

"It's limited-edition and it fits you, be grateful."

"I'm very grateful for the regift." Matsuoka sets his phone aside and stretches, striking his fingers against the headboard. "I do wear it, for the record."

"Should've sent me a pic."

"I'll wear it tomorrow."

" _Nice._ " Natsuya pumps his fist and watches Matsuoka settle into his crap-ass pillow. "I really love you."

"Huh?"

Huh? Yeah, he guesses he did just say that. Well. No going back now. "I love you."

"No, you don't."

"You're not the arbiter of my feelings." He reaches for Matsuoka's cheek.

Matsuoka brushes him off. "Don't play with me."

"I'm not playing! You're fun and funny and you give really good hugs. Even when you're being a hardass, I like that too. Plus you're hot. Full package!"

"Are you fucking serious?" He's making a face, but Natsuya can't figure out what it's trying to say.

"Hugs are extremely important to me."

Matsuoka sits up. "I can't believe you. I thought we were on the same page with this."

"That doesn't mean we can't try. What do you think's going to happen?" He waits. "Rin."

"Don't."

"Fine."

Natsuya gets up, puts on the first things he finds, and leaves.

He is at the beach. He doesn't know how he got there, how long it's been. There is no one, police or otherwise. Slate blue water licks the dying sun. He removes his sandals and enters the water. Threads of foam lap at his ankles as the sand conforms to his feet, pierces through his toes. He's done it now. Heat blisters his eyes, contorts his face into unfamiliar grotesqueries, runs out of his nose in thin, pathetic strands. He screams at the sun until his throat tastes like fire, then drops, burnt out, into the greying sand. There is no reason.

_you fucking serious?_

_can't believe you._

_Don't._

They circle in his head, chasing each other's tails. His nails dig into his flesh. _Why am I so stupid?_ Stupid about everything. Can't do anything. He's so stupid he forgot his wallet, so he can't even go to a hotel. He's so stupid he forgot his passport, so even if he did have his wallet, he can't go and start a new life in Sinaloa. He has to go back and face him and if not him, then somebody else who'll never forgive him. He buries his face in his knees, pressing until his eyesockets ache. He wants to swallow hot lead.

Matsuoka appears all at once. Gone, and then there. The Samezuka shark holds the blade in eerie mid-snap. Natsuya rolls to his feet, turns to cut down the beach, and the shark moves.

"Did you mean it?"

His foot lowers, but fear keeps him rigid. Cold, wet sand drips from his shorts. "Yeah."

Later, who knows, but right now it feels true.

Rin approaches as if each step might trigger a beartrap. He pauses at breathing distance, unhooks his mask on one side, lets it dangle from his ear. Natsuya tugs his bracelet, hoping he won't ask anything else. He wishes Rin would get on with it already, tell him he's useless and childish, that he would be better off never talking to anyone else again. Tell him he's a coward. Unforgivable.

The embrace engulfs him slowly, starting from his waist and rising, tightening, pressing their hearts bruisingly close. Natsuya sinks into it, immersing himself where the light won't reach, where there is nothing but this. He crushes Rin's mouth, swallows his breath, and crawls inside him, where he can't be found.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Done for real now.
> 
> Criticism is not only welcome, but encouraged, and helps me create better content in the future. Thanks for reading.  
> 9 January 2021  
> \- 匿名重工業


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